


Why Drift Was Given Blue Optics

by Autobratty



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Plothole Fill, this isn't TOO shippy but y'know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-11
Updated: 2016-07-11
Packaged: 2018-07-22 23:54:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7458553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Autobratty/pseuds/Autobratty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Filling the plot hole of why Drift was given blue optics instead of having his red optics replaced, seeing as there ARE mechs with red optics in the city, so y'know, wasn't a plausible canon reason for that other than "It represents the beginning of his change from a bad guy to a good guy!!" which is, honestly, poor storytelling and absolute bullshit</p><p>So yeah it's not TOO shippy but it's fluffy and cute sooo yeah enjoy!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Why Drift Was Given Blue Optics

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by YeahDragon

“Why did you give me blue optics?”

The question had come seemingly out of nowhere, only a few days after Drift had been in New Crystal City. He had been lying on the couch brooding in silence, as per usual, while his mentor - _no, captor,_ he thought - fixed them their evening energon.

Wing had stopped what he was doing, hand in midair from where he’d been sprinkling iron supplements into their energon. The question caught him completely off-guard; Drift rarely initiated conversation while they were alone inside Wing’s apartment. “What?”

“Why. Did you give me. Blue optics,” Drift ground out, still not moving from where he was sprawled out on the sofa. “I’m not sure if you’re aware, but these days, blue optics are for Autobots. Some of them still wear red, but no self-respecting Decepticon has blue optics. They…” Drift took a deep breath and shifted almost imperceptibly in discomfort. Wing caught the action with curiosity. “Blue optics were what the enforcers had, before the war. All of them. You know that. And the enforcers…” Drift swallowed the hard lump forming in his throat before his vocalizer could crackle. “…They’re the ones that made existing a living hell for bots like me.”

Setting the small container of iron flakes down on the polished marble counter, Wing crossed the room quietly and then knelt down between Drift and the small table in front of the couch. His wings twitched in distress, field reaching out.“Drift,” he began softly, trying to choose his words carefully. “That is not what blue optics represent here.”

Drift’s head snapped over, gazing directly into Wing’s golden optics, his field pulled tight against his taut frame. “Then what _do_ they represent here?” he sneered.

White audial flares flicked, but otherwise Wing did not move. “Here,” he began, “we follow the old system of how Cybertronians were given optic colors. For example, gold represents one’s inner light, and is for mecha who hold tight to their beliefs, who are willing to sacrifice themselves for others, no matter the cost.” The corner of Wing’s mouth twitched up as he touched his cheek, just below his golden eyes.

“Orange optics mimic glowing embers, and are for mecha who try their hardest to be appreciated by others. They rise from their own ashes, and are great protectors. Red, like yours,” he continued, “represent the blazing fire within, the will to live. They were, and are, reserved for warrior veterans who have seen the world at its worst-”

“Then why didn't you let me keep my red optics?!” Drift growled, sitting up. “I've seen the absolute _worst_ this life has to offer! I've seen things that you wouldn't believe, things that would tear your pretty little world _apart_ -”

Wing raised a dark hand to silence the other mech. “And blue optics,” he murmured, gazing intently at Drift, “are for mecha with great potential. Their color represents that of the spark, because it is they who possess the sparks that burn the brightest.”

Drift closed his mouth, optics wide with shock. He… hadn't been expecting that answer. “Oh,” he murmured quietly, averting his eyes. For the first time since he'd been there in New Crystal City, the Decepticon didn't have a single smart remark to retort with. He felt something brush against his fingers, twitching as his gaze snapped to his hand: and there was one of Wing’s smooth, polished hands resting halfway atop his own battered, marred fingers.

“What are you…” Drift’s voice trailed off as Wing gave his hand a gentle squeeze. He didn’t dare meet the jet’s eyes, let the mech see how much the simple gesture affected him. The last time someone had touched him so gently was… was….

Drift screwed his optics shut and turned his head away, faceplates burning with shame as coolant welled up in his eyes. Between Wing’s explanation of why he’d petitioned for Drift to have blue optics, and the memory of Gasket’s own, he could feel himself falling apart on the inside. Casting his pride to the wayside, he turned over his palm to grip Wing’s hand tightly, clenching his other into a tight ball. Drift felt the Knight’s other hand slide over his fist, easily cracking it open and lacing his fingers between the grounder’s.

It was a long while before either mech said anything. They sat in silence as the artificial light of the city dimmed to a golden orange, bright rays dancing across white plating as they simply held each other’s hands, their energon all but forgotten.

Wing, of course, was the first to speak up. “Drift?” he whispered, noticing that the vice-like grip on his hands had slackened somewhat. “Are you awake?”

When there was no response, Wing smiled, his grin edged with worry and exasperation. Planning on putting the energon in the refrigerator so they could have it for breakfast tomorrow, Wing began to stand, pulling away his hands. However, Drift reached up like a lightning bolt, capturing the white mech’s hands again. His optics were wide with what looked like a tired form of fear or, perhaps, longing?

Another silence settled over them as Wing stared down in surprise at Drift, who seemed to be shocked by his own actions. What was coming over him?

Drift snatched his hands away and turned over, burying his face in the couch. “M’sorry,” he mumbled into the soft cushions, flustered. Long shadows drew across the room as the light breathed its last and darkness settled over the city. Even though Drift couldn’t see him, Wing shook his head. 

“There is no need to apologize, Drift.”

When Drift didn’t turn back over and kept his hands firmly pinned between his abdomen and the sofa, Wing let out a soft little sigh. He’d finally been getting somewhere with Drift, and then he’d screwed it up. Fantastic.

With another small sigh, Wing stood and patted Drift’s shoulder armor. “Alright. Sleep well, Drift.”

Pretending to already be asleep, Drift felt his spark contract a little. _You too, Wing. You too._


End file.
